


Dancing with Demons

by Focalist



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 21:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13960620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Focalist/pseuds/Focalist
Summary: Siblings are pitted against siblings. Sons murder their fathers. The Church staffs its highest offices with demons.In a world where nothing makes sense, two souls who have upended their world look for a reason to keep going.





	Dancing with Demons

There was a knock at the door. It was followed a little later by another but only a call of “Sir Ramza!” from beyond the door drew him from his reverie.

“A moment,” he said as he stood. He blinked at his surroundings. It was a smallish room, dark because the shutters were closed. He recognized the voice, though, and besides, only one person in the company hadn’t yet adjusted to the custom of dropping formalities.

“Sir Meliadoul,” he said, returning the formality by habit.

“Well met,” the young woman replied. She was dressed in her gambeson and wore her sword at her hip, as most of the warriors did while they were encamped. Behind her, Boco was clawing the ground; her saddle bearing a suit of mail and a familiar pair of swords. “Master Bunansa told me to bring your equipment,” she said, following his gaze. “Your mail has been mended and your swords honed.”

“Is that so? Well, thank you, though you shouldn’t let him send you on such errands. I would’ve fetched them myself.”

“I believe he thought so as well, but was convinced otherwise when you didn’t so much as fetch lunch.”

Ramza blinked. Only then did he realize that the daylight was already tinged orange. Beyond Meladioul, he could see their companions milling about the campsite they’d set up in the old farm. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”

He retrieved his equipment from Boco then went back into the small house, leaving the door open for Meliadoul to follow.

They’d stumbled upon the farmhouse after a night of marching, during which they’d barely managed to fend off some brigands, exhausted as they’d been from the fight before that. The company had insisted he take the small house for his own quarters while they set camp in the fields around it. He’d been too exhausted to protest.

“Were you busy with something?” Meliadoul asked. 

“No.” He said. Sleep had taken him just after they finished pitching camp and setting watches. He vaguely remembered waking, and then going through a few exercises. He must’ve drifted off at some point then. Not very far into the exercises, most likely.

 “How’s the situation in the camp?” he asked, depositing his gear on a small wooden table in the middle of the room—the sole item furnishing the ramshackle haunt, save for the small chest he’d brought himself. If Mustadio, of all people, was sending someone to check on him, his absence must have been conspicuous indeed.

 “Quite well,” she said. “At sunrise, Sir Voltaire and Apristina ventured to the nearby town to procure supplies.”

 “Good. Is everyone ready to depart? Once I’ve dressed we can—”

 “About that,” Meliadoul interjected. “It seems the town is celebrating its feast day this evening. News spread quickly throughout the camp and, well...”

“They are loath to depart.” Ramza sighed. “I can’t blame them but would it truly be wise? We’ve just barely escaped pursuit.”

“What would be more suspicious, good sir: a small troupe passing by for the feast day or an armed company marching through, ignoring it entirely?”

“In these times?”

But she just looked at him, her brown eyes clear and undaunted. Apparently, the company had thought this through.

“Well, as long as they’re subtle about it.”

Meliadoul smiled. It was a small thing, as were most her expressions, but a genuine one. “That will lift their spirits, I’m sure. And you can make good on that appetite you’ve been building up since noon.”

“Forgive me, but I’ll pass,” he said. “And tell Mustadio there’s nothing to worry about. I’m tired from the march, but otherwise well.”

She considered his reply silently, then retreated a step. “I see. With your leave, Sir.”

He managed a small smile of his own then. “Enjoy the evening.”

She saluted, turned on her heel and left, closing the door behind her.

Through the window, Ramza watched her ride Boco out into the field. When she was no more than a shadow against the sunlight, he returned to the table in the middle of the room. He spread the mail out and ran his hands across it, over the patches where the new links gleamed amid the charred dullness of the rest of the hauberk: one break had been mended under the arm, another on the opposite forearm, and one last at the neck.

A shiver ran through him then, brought on by a chill too fresh in his mind. The room seemed to darken about him, all sunlight fled beyond thick stone walls that his memory built around him. And within it echoed a low ghastly moan. _It hurts._ Plaintive and urgent. _I can’t feel and yet it hurts._ The swords were in his hands then, ringing free from their sheaths, his fists quivering around the hilts— _Kill me—_ swinging in wide arcs without method or measure— _Please—_ tearing through steel— _Ramza—_ splintering wood—

“Sir Ramza!”

He whirled around blades at the ready. A pale face regarded him from the doorway—but it was pale with wariness and not undeath. He lowers his arms and then released the blades, which clattered to the floor.

“My apologies,” he said. He turned away and regarded the fruits of his fury. The recently repaired suit of mail lay upon the wreck of the wooden table, new holes broken through the links. “Just… practicing.”

“Truly?” Meliadoul asked. “Against an unsatisfactorily mended suit of mail?”

Her attempt at humor drew a dry laugh out of him.

“If you hated it so, I could have disposed of it better.”

“What brings you here?”

He heard the scrape of steel on wood as she picked the swords up from the floor and then her heavy footsteps as she approached. “Perhaps I am wrong,” she said, moving to stand beside him. She gestured at the armor. “I could have hardly wrought worse than you did.”

Ramza rounded on her. Had she come to mock him? But she regarded him evenly. “I’ll apologize to Mustadio myself,” he said. “Now, what can I help you with?”

“Well.” She pressed the sheathed blades into his arms then took a step back and smoothed down the front of her clothes. “I was hoping to persuade you to go to the feast day.”

Only then did he register that Meliadoul had traded her gambeson and chausses for a dress. It was nothing elaborate—a simple riding dress of the sort Agrias wore on occasion—but it was, he realized, the first time he’d seen her wearing one.

“Are you so adamant on my going?”

“No, but Master Bunansa is.”

“Again with Mustadio! Does he have some issue with me?”

“Other than the repairs you just undid?” Meliadoul shook her head. “Lady Agrias has insisted on staying to guard the camp. He intends to stay as well and—”

“Enough,” Ramza said, shaking his head in turn. “I’ve heard enough.” Though this being Mustadio, he was fairly certain there was more at work in his mind. Cunning yet somehow bumbling, he always was. “Pray, await me by the fire. I will join you presently.”

“As you say, Sir,” she said and smiled.

 

 

***

 

“I heard that you complained, yet you certainly look dressed for the occasion!” Mustadio said when Ramza stepped into the camp, wearing his dress uniform from his days at court. Only the embellished sword was missing, replaced by a more businesslike weapon. “Could I perhaps have been wrong about you?”

“If you were concerned for my well-being, I assure you, I’m fine,” Ramza said.

“Of course.” Mustadio placed his hands on Ramza’s shoulders and drew him in close. “For a while I thought you truly had no interest in our young lady Templar, but it seems I was wrong.” He pushed him back to arms length and grinned. “Well, enjoy the feast day.”

Ramza stared at him incredulously, but before he could respond, Meliadoul appeared from behind a tent. He nodded to her by way of greeting then turned to Mustadio again. “I must apologize, Mustadio.”

“Eh?” Mustadio said.

“While I was training, I damaged the armor you repaired. I would be most obliged if you could see to it again. Now then, I’ll see you later.” He moved to join Meliadoul at the camp’s entrance without waiting for Mustadio’s response, though it followed him yards away from the camp.

“Bringing your sword to a feast day, Sir Ramza?” Meliadoul asked when Mustadio’s invective had quieted.

“We have too many pursuers to risk going unarmed.”

“Hmm.” After a minute or so, she said, “Among the Knights Templar, bearing a sword at a feast day was considered poor manners. To trust in steel rather than the protection of Ajora’s blessed was considered an invitation to violence.”

“Ajora’s legacy has visited its share of violence on us already without any invitation on our part. I’d rather meet them with steel in hand.”

“I suppose.”

Their path took them onto the main road, which wound lazily through the low hills of the area. Around a quarter hour later, they spied the town atop a particularly large hill. Its walls and spires jutted into the last slash of sun in the sky, while the feast day lanterns added their own meager light to the deepening dusk. As they drew closer, they could hear the strains of viols and psalteries and the deep hum of the Cant of the Blessed being recited.

The sounds stirred Ramza’s memories: visions of twilit jaunts through the streets of Gariland with Delita and, sometimes, Alma and Teta or, at others, with fellow squires. Out of habit, rather than conscious thought, he inched toward Meliadoul and raised his arm partway. He was surprised when her hand closed on the crook of his arm.

“Did you attend many feast days in your youth, Sir Ramza?”

“There’s not much else for diversion around the salle, is there?”

“And how many of those evenings did you pass with the ladies in the chivalry?” she asked, her grip on his arm tightening slightly.

Ramza looked pointedly ahead.

“The Templars were housed in a rectory,” Meliadoul said, “so perhaps our experiences were somewhat different. Perhaps you could show me how a feast day is normally celebrated?”

“Indeed?” His thoughts returned to those long nights with his friends and family and in spite of all else that weighed on his mind, Ramza smiled. “Perhaps I could. Thought at this age, I fear some of it would be… unseemly.”

“Be that as it may. I’m not a knight anymore.” With that, she tightened her grip on his arm and drew him faster toward the gates of the town.

 

 

***

 

Festivities were in full swing by the time the pair arrived. A troupe of musicians had set up by the plaza, where they played the accompaniment to the cantors of the Church. Other entertainers had set up around the plaza, while vendors sold trinkets, clothes and, most of all, food along the streets leading out from it.

Ramza and Meliadoul went straight to the plaza first, as was custom, and stood before the church but didn’t enter. Instead, they lingered in front of it watching townsfolk and visitors enter and exit and mill about.

“Used to be I’d spend most of the feast days inside,” Meliadoul said, nodding at the large edifice.

“We used to just get it out of the way,” Ramza said.

“Never were one for religion, were you?”

“I was just a normal squire. If I had a break from my drills and duties, why would I spend it in church?”

They lingered a little longer, taking in the music and the sights, before perusing the other attractions. A number of conjurers had gathered at one side of the square, working their magic into brilliant flourishes and cunning deceptions. While one performed, the others would pause; when that one finished, another would seek to do better. The third magician they watched ended this segment with clouds of multicolored smoke that shimmered as they dissipated.

“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Meliadoul said. “Nice to see magic at work when it’s not… you know.”

“So it is. The magicians of Gariland practiced their performances year round. The displays on the Feast of St. Ajora are unmatched anywhere except perhaps in Lesalia. Though the mages would never concede that openly.”

“Disappointed, are you?”

“No,” Ramza said. “I’d be disappointed if I found Gariland’s splendor matched in a small town.”

Before the next magician could begin, the Cant of the Blessed reached a sudden peak, voices and instruments sounding to their limits. This went on for a few phrases before the cant ended in a final, triumphant harmony.

There was a breath of silence before the whole plaza erupted into cheers. All the magicians conjured some display of lights, while elsewhere the other entertainers performed flourishes of their own. The consort of musicians packed up their instruments and another band took their places, bringing a range of strings, flutes and drums to bear. After a few minutes spent getting each others’ tone and measure, they began a playful, light-footed melody.

“What about this? Is this familiar, too?” Meliadoul motioned toward the center of the plaza, where people were congregating, pair by pair, and dancing to the music.

“More or less.” He turned his glance from the dancers toward Meliadoul. Her eyes were fixed ahead, reflecting the sparkling of the lanterns and mirroring the fluid movements of the dance. “I don’t suppose—”

“Of course,” she said. “Lead on, good sir.”

Ramza guided her toward the middle of the plaza. Already there were a dozen or so couples dancing, including a pair from their company, and it was with a little difficulty that Ramza chanced an entry into that ever-shifting circle. His steps were off for the first few measures—which threw Meliadoul off, too—but once he got the tempo, he found the movements coming naturally to him.

“You do seem used to this,” Meliadoul said.

“You’re doing well yourself,” he said. Across him, Meliadoul smiled.

“A little practice and a good partner go a long way.”

“You’re doing well for having just the former.”

She laughed. “Well, don’t fall behind, Sir Ramza.”

“Why do you call me ‘sir?’ I’m no more a knight than you are.”

Meliadoul’s gaze faltered for a while, flickering off to the side. Suddenly awkward, Ramza averted his eyes as well. His gaze fell upon a young woman at the edge of the crowd, who suddenly looked away.

“You still strive for the good of Ivalice.”

“Many would contest that.”

“Many who claim to be knights and yet turn their blades against their liege lords? Against the people they serve? How many can claim to still serve Princess Ovelia?”

“And, so doing, opposing the prince.”

“And protect the people against the Lucavi?”

“Who themselves answer the summons of the powers that be.”

“They would see the kingdom fall to ruin rather than protect it. But you—”

“How could I protect it? I—” he broke off, suddenly stepping out of turn and bumping into Meliadoul. He stepped again to correct himself but nearly moved into the path of a neighboring couple.

“Excuse us,” Meliadoul said to no one in particular, and deftly extracted the two of them from the dance. She turned to him. “When you’re ready.”

Ramza shook his head. “We should not speak of this here.”

“Then were?”Meliadoul asked.

“...I don’t know,” Ramza said, glancing away.

“Oh my,” Meliadoul said, sounding amused. “Truly, Ramza?”

“What?” He looked at her, confused, then followed her gaze—right back to the tavern he’d been glancing at. And then he realized. “No! No. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to suggest—well, to _suggest._ ”

Meliadoul laughed. “I know. You’re not that type at all.”

She leaned into him, speaking softly. “Which is why you should have a bit more faith. I know it’s difficult. I have… confronted something quite akin to what you now face. I have weathered despair and before that I had endured wrath. Perhaps you feel the world as you know it is already lost. I felt as much when what I thought was truth collapsed around me, when the father that raised me showed himself a murderer and the church I served was revealed for the farce it is. I wondered where to find good in this world—and I found you still fighting for it.”

Ramza strode further away from the plaza, into the streets where the crowds thinned. When there were only a few others—and those a few yards away—he slowed to a stop outside a battened down work shop.

“Fighting for what, Meliadoul? Siblings are pitted against siblings; sons murder their fathers; the Church staffs its highest offices with demons—” He broke off, his teeth clenching into the thoughts he could not shape into words.

“What you mean,” Meliadoul said, “is that you have betrayed your liege, slain your brothers, and denounced your faith; that you have committed treason, fratricide, and heresy.”

Ramza nodded. “If this is the face of goodness in the world that is to come, perhaps I am better off not greeting it.”

“Do not say that!”

Her urgency was startling and Ramza looked up—and noticed a flash of movement in the corner of his vision.

“You may not—”

“Hold.” He reached his arm toward her, sliding it around her shoulder. “This way.”

Ramza lead them further down the road at a moderate pace. They passed a few buildings with lights burning somewhere deep within, spilling faint orange glows into the night. Here and there they chanced upon a lone itinerant or heard the shuffle of furtive feet in some darkened alley. Ramza kept them going until they reached the edge of the town, where a flimsy wooden fence stood at the edge of a sparse field of coarse grass.

He turned Meliadoul about so that her back was to the fence, then leaned forward until their faces were scarcely an inch apart.

“S— Ramza?”

“We have been followed,” he whispered. He felt the gap in Meliadoul’s breathing as she tensed up. “She’s been watching us since we were at the plaza. She seems to be alone, but I cannot—”

A laugh slipped out from her.

“...be certain?”

“Caught someone’s eye, have you?” Meliadoul said, leaning back just far enough to look him in the eye. “That is, someone else’s.”

“I—what?”

Meliadoul shook her head. “I imagine she’s looking to confirm your intentions.”

Ramza shook his head. “You don’t mean to say—”

But Meliadoul had closed her eyes and parted her lips. Her hands were light upon his chest, but he could feel her fingers curling ripples out of the fabric of his doublet. He inched forward.

She made up the difference.

The sudden warmth, the tenderness, the fragrance: these seemed, in that instant, to be all the world with nothing more beyond it. They chased away the doubts that had been clouding his mind, replacing it with a fervent, new bewilderment—

And then he was spinning. The warmth lifted from his lips and his chest, replaced by the cool evening wind, just before his back crashed into the wooden beams of the fence.

He heard the scuffle before he saw it, a tussle of fabric, an exchange of grunts—a cry of pain as steel shattered!—and then Meliadoul’s voice ringing clear.

“Stand down!”

The picture came into focus. The young woman he’d spied at the plaza was standing in front of Meliadoul. Blood was streaming down her arm from a lacerated hand. Fragments of steel littered the dark earth in front of her.

“I knew it,” the girl hissed through her teeth. “The demons of Riovanes.”

Ramza could see that the words struck Meliadoul as they did himself. Before she could respond, he pulled himself forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. He looked the girl in the face, meeting her glare with an even glance.

“You know what happened at Riovanes?”

“You… My father...” She hissed through gritted teeth, “I will avenge my father.”

“No. If you know what happened at Riovanes, then you know that you will have no vengeance.” He stepped forward, grinding fragments of her shattered weapon, whatever it may have been, into the ground. “There are some demons you cannot overcome. No good comes of chasing them.”

The girl glared at him until tears rimmed her eyes. With a piercing cry, she collapsed to her knees and shuddered.

Ramza turned to Meliadoul. “Let’s go. Others will come. We must be long gone by then.”

They hastened into the field and, when the town was no more than a nimbus of light on the horizon, they turned sharply, heading toward the old farm where the camp stood.

“Are you okay?” Ramza asked.

“Are you?”

“No harm done.”

“Nor to myself.”

“Good.”

Soon, the ground began to roll in low hillocks, which told them they were nearing the camp. Moving further, they began to hear snatches of songs and laughter.

“It seems the others have returned,” Meliadoul said.

“Some, at least. Which is good. We’ll have to start breaking camp. It won’t be long before news spreads.” He chuckled. “An invitation to violence indeed.”

“I suppose some things hold true,” Meliadoul said with a dry laugh of her own.

“Well, if it’s an invitation they want, let us give them one they can’t ignore,” Ramza said. “We’ll write it with steel and seal it with blood.”

“You are resolved, then?”

Ramza shook his head. “By necessity do I put one foot before the next. But this world makes no more sense to me than before. Feast days of violence and innocents with blood on their hands and—” he glanced her way—“and knights dancing with demons.”

She laughed. “Well, someone has to chase them. Don’t you think so?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “For all the ones who can’t.”


End file.
